“You’re such an old pervert to be staring at me like that. How long have you been there? I’ll probably have to report you to Police Constable Barton Burton.” He frowned, and Alex leant in awkwardly for a kiss.

“I’ve only just got here. Of course one didn’t expect a welcome.”

Justin gave him a level, sparring look, and then smiled coyly. “What do you think of my tanga?” he said.

“Is that what you call it? I think you’ve put on some weight,” said Alex.

“It’s Robin, dear.” He stood up and turned round once: he was lightly tanned all over. “He feeds me and feeds me. He also has a mania for getting one’s kit off. He’ll have you out of all that, darling.” At which Alex felt needlessly shy, as if warned at the beginning of a party of some worrying game to be played after tea. Justin put an arm through Alex’s to lead him back to the cottage. “You’re looking very groomed, darling, for the country. This is the country.” He gestured weakly with his other hand. “You can tell because of all the traffic, and the pubs are full of fascists. Apparently there’s another homo moving into the village. We’re terribly over-excited, as you can imagine.”

They were standing in the kitchen, in another kind of heat, fuelled and flavoured by cooking. Justin lifted the lid that half-covered the slow soup on the hob and peered in with pretended competence. Alex said, “There’s a wonderful smell.”

“That’s the bread, dear. He pops it in before he goes for his run, and when he gets back it’s the exact second to take it out again. He makes all sorts of different sorts of bread.”

Alex pictured his return. “I don’t think he ought to find us like this.”

Justin gave a smile and looked down at his sleek near-nakedness. “Perhaps you’re right,” he said, reaching for an apron from the Rayburn’s front rail, and sauntering out of the room in it like a French maid in an elderly work of pornography. Alex turned away from the sight.